Potions
by slowfox
Summary: AU, Sixth Year, post OotP, pre HBP: Potions continues to live down to expectations for our Hero.
1. Potions

**Summary:** It's AU Sixth Year at a post OotP, pre HBP Hogwarts, and Snape's as easy-going as ever when it comes to Potions at NEWT level. Fortunately, however, our hero hasn't been left to fend completely by himself...  
Potions

Snape seemed to have taken the newly-reinstated Gryffindor Seeker's decision to pursue Potions at NEWT level particularly badly. It was as though, aggravated by The Boy Who Lived's failure to pick up on five years of hinting that the Potions Master did not appreciate Harry's company in any way, shape or form, the gloves were now well and truly off: no more Mr Nice Guy.

"Perhaps," hypothesised the Head of Slytherin House (and, if rumours were to be believed, the freshly rejected applicant once more for the Defence Against the Dark Arts post), "I was not clear enough in my instructions?" It could have passed for theatre, except for the tangibly thick layer of malevolence in the hissed words, as though it was taking every ounce of the wizard's self-control not to hex Harry into oblivion there on the spot.

"Or perhaps," he continued, two black, mirthless eyes locked on Harry's, "our most esteemed student feels that a mere fifteen years' experience counts for nothing, and that he... knows... best..." an almost executional hush had fallen across the NEWT Potions class as the last words were uttered. Had the situation been less severe, Harry might have noticed the closest thing to a sign of life cross Malfoy's face since the start of term as Snape moved in for the kill, but no, Harry had other problems at that precise moment in time.

The principle one (apoplectic Potions teacher notwithstanding) being that instead of the calm, azure solution intended, his cauldron was struggling to contain a violent maelstrom of reddish-orange gloop with the consistency of treacle and a big fat 'zero' written across the whole lesson's work in big flaming script. That last was a metaphor, of course, but the end result was the same.

From the desk to his left, Harry could _feel_ Hermione urging him not to do anything 'rash'. Ron, next to her (as always), would simply be holding his breath, offering votives to any and all of the patron saints of damage limitation. But Harry wasn't looking at them - instead, he used every ounce of his self control to keep his eyes locked, defiantly, on Snape's - he wasn't going to give _Snivellus_ the satisfaction of being the one to blink first.

"Tell me," invited the Potions Master, in the tones normally reserved for declarations of open war, "exactly _how_ many ounces of shredded Boomslang Skin does this potion require?"

"Um, Thr..." began Harry, when he felt a dainty right foor exert four distinct presses on his left, "I mean, four," he corrected, hastily.

There was a long, dreadful silence, filled only by the soft murmur of fifteen simmering cauldrons. No-one dared breathe as Snape and Harry continued to look hard into others' eyes, each equally determined to give no quarter.

"Interfere in my class again, Miss Patil," warned Snape in cold, soft tones without taking his eyes off Harry for a second, "and I will see to it personally that you are _expelled_."

Parvati, on Harry's left, gave no sign of having heard the threat, but this hardly mattered, as Snape didn't even bother with so much as a cursory glance in her direction. Internally, Harry squirmed with guilt for Parvati's misfortune at being paired with him, but he was determined not to let Snape receive any indication whatsoever that he might, just might, be getting to him.

"_This_," Snape indicated the cauldron with a wave of his hand that somehow managed to convey near infinite levels of abhorrence for the ineptitude of its creators, "is worthless. You have, again, Mr Potter, attained a mark of zero in this class. I am certain I do not need to remind you of the consequences should your performance in this subject fail to improve..."

Finally, there was a brief wand flick, and the contents of Harry and Parvati's cauldron were sent back to whichever level of Hell they'd apparently come from (and where, no doubt, they would await their reunion with Snape with stoic patience). Snape reached his teaching podium in four measured strides (Harry had had ample opportunity to analyse every element of this aspect of Potions since starting his sixth year), and with a single all-encompassing glare, wordlessly communicated that all those students who valued their lives were to resume their studies.

Harry chanced an apologetic glance at Parvati, before the afterthought evidently struck Harry's least favourite member of the Order of the Phoenix: "Potter, Patil. Detention, nine o' clock, Tuesday evening. Now get out of my sight."

Guilt fought a short-lived, and, ultimately futile resistance against relief as Harry only too readily complied with Snape's final request. He _knew_ that he was going to get it in the neck from Hermione for having rushed the homework, but it wasn't his _fault_ (well, OK, yes, he'd mixed up the ingredients, but _apart_ from that, it really wasn't his fault).

Snape had it in for him. Really.

* * *

"So _why_ are you taking Potions, Harry?" enquired Parvati, as they settled into adjacent chairs in one of the more secluded corners of Madam Pince's domain. "I mean, Snape really, really has it in for you..."

Still smarting from yet another bout of public humiliation, Harry had to force himself to bite down the sharp retort - _oh, you noticed, did you?_ - and contented himself with a non-committal grunt that would, he hope, serve as whatever answer Parvati wished to interpret it as.

"Fine!" she snapped, after waiting a further few moments to give Harry an opportunity to elaborate, and with a flick of her long dark, hair, she fished out her Charms homework, and began to read with exaggerated intensity.

The guilt, still a sore loser after giving in to relief on being dismissed from Potions early, made a rallying comeback. After all, hadn't he just cost Parvati a zero in Potions for the third week running too? It was sort of baffling, actually, as to why she was still willing to be his partner in the subject, come to think of it...

"IwanttobeanAuror," Harry mumbled, feeling his face heat up at these words. Not that he was embarrassed about his aspirations, so much, as feeling that it was a little presumptuous, or big-headed, to sort of assume he'd make the grade.

"Hmmm?" Parvati turned, questioningly, obviously not having been able to decipher Harry's words into anything remotely intelligible.

"I, y'know, want to be an Auror. When I leave," he added hurriedly, and somewhat superfluously, in case Parvati thought he was so big-headed he had plans on heading up the Ministry's Auror Division before seventh year.

She continued to give him the 'elaborate, _do_,' look.

"And, well, last year, y'know, with the Careers advice and stuff, McGonagall said that you need really top marks to be an Auror, and that included NEWT in Potions..."

"Oh, wow, Harry, that's really..." Parvati seemed to flounder a little, searching for the right word, "that's so _you_."

"Um, er... yeah," he affirmed with his customary elegance, before belatedly remembering the rudiments of the art of conversation, "so, um, why are _you_ doing Potions?"

Parvati shifted edgily in her seat, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"It's just, you know," continued Harry, somehow aware that he was opening his mouth solely so that he could place his foot squarely therein, "it's not your kind of subject. Well, I mean, the type of subject I thought you liked. Snape. Thing..." Harry trailed off, as the effort of willing an enormous black hole to swallow him completely was rapidly diminishing his ability to string words together.

"Well," she ventured, somewhat hesitantly, "I want to go into beauty after Hogwarts, and you need Potions for the creams and makeup and stuff."

Whilst Harry was gratified that Parvati had managed to dignify his question with an answer, he was now thoroughly alarmed at the prospect of having to continue a conversation where he was supposed to imply that he understood this was a worthy career choice. "That's really," he nodded, enthusiastically, "really..."

"I know it's cheap, and tawdry and everything," she continued, getting visibly miserable, "but it's all I'm good at." She brightened, falsely, "So, you know, I'm going to do my thing, and it's going to be OK..."

Harry was shaking his head, "What do you mean, _all you're good at_?" he asked. "Parvati, you were brilliant in the DA: I mean, you really came on a lot through that, you know? And you had a good start on the Patronus, too - that'll come, really..."

OK, maybe 'brilliant' was a little charitable, but, actually, no, Harry corrected himself, the DA had really proven themselves to him, and, more importantly, to themselves, and he was _not_ going to let Parvati talk herself down in that way. She was better than that.

Parvati's unease had begun to evaporate as Harry's conviction had carried through into words, and a hesitant smile was, at last, just touching the corners of her mouth.

Yeah, better than that. Definitely.

* * *


	2. Detention

**Disclaimer:** JK Rowling and assorted publishers own Harry Potter.

This is a work of fanfiction: no money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

Detention

* * *

Time, reflected Harry, was a strange sort of thing. The clock in Gryffindor had taken an age to circle from 7.30 through to half eight, but then, once there, it had seemed to speed up with scant regard for the fact that he had a Transfiguration essay to finish before traipsing down to the Potions classroom for his detention with _Snivellus_. At eight inches short and ten minutes to, he resigned himself to having to finish McGonagall's essay on his return from the dungeons, and started to clear things from their table into his bag.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance, clearly getting ready to launch into one of their rehearsed conversations, but just as Hermione had opened her mouth to speak, Harry held his hand up to forestall her: "Don't. I know. It's my own fault. It won't happen again," he said, dully.

"Well," ventured Hermione, hesitantly. She looked on the verge of expanding upon this opening, but evidently thought better of it.

"Don't let him get to you, mate," advised Ron, which Harry thought was a bit rich, given his best friend's track record in resisting provocation.

Not to mention a bit redundant: Snape? That miserable git? Get to _him?_ Hardly!

"We'll be here when you get back," Hermione promised, quill poised over parchment, but eyes looking straight up at Harry as he stood.

"Cheers, guys," acknowledged Harry, before closing his eyes as he steeled his resolve. Puffing his cheeks as he exhaled slowly, he glanced across the Common Room towards Parvati, ensconced as usual with Lavender in their alcove across from the fireplace.

Wincing slightly at the recollection that the mistake that had resulted in their joint detention had sort of been his fault, Harry weaved his way through the clusters of tables to fetch her. Genuine mistake, disproportionate punishment: Snape all over.

"Hey," announced Harry, unenthusiastically, noting the Star Charts spread out between the two friends, and realising that he needed to get his Divination Studies homework sorted by Thursday; Thursday evening was taken up with Quidditch practice, and Trelawney was first thing on Friday. Life was certainly busy in sixth year.

"Is it time, then?" asked Parvati, glumly, whilst simultaneously sweeping up her quills (she was writing in three different colours), books and papers.

"Yep," confirmed Harry, his own lack of enthusiasm plumbing new depths as he wondered exactly what kind of vindictive pubishment he was about to have inflicted upon him. Oh, indeed, there were two of them - Parvati was in detention with him, but he was under no illusion: Snape's detention would be all about Harry; Parvati was just an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, the corridor was a fair bit cooler than the Common Room had been, and as the portrait swung shut, cutting off the ambient noise of Gryffindor conversation, the castle suddenly seemed a much emptier place. Wondering whether they should have brought their cloaks (Parvati had stretched the sleeves of her jumper over her fingers), the two sixth years set off down the stairwell.

For a brief moment, Harry reflected that it was ironic that their detention required them to travel virtually the entire height of the castle, from Gryffindor Tower down to the foundations, before he realised that it wasn't ironic at all. Of _course_ Snape would have picked a time that would almost guarantee that he and Parvati would have to walk as far as possible, in as miserable conditions as he was able to muster under the circumstances.

"Are detentions usually this late?" asked Parvati as they hurried past Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. "It's just... I've never actually been in detention before," she confessed, as though this was some kind of deficiency on her part.

"No, not usually," explained Harry, who had - unwittingly - become something of an expert on Hogwarts discipline. "Snivellus just wants to make our lives as hard as he can."

"Snivellus? I've never heard him called _that_ before..."

Harry winced. "Um, yeah. No," he agreed, fluently. "Sirius used to call him that."

"Sirius _Black_?" They were descending another spiral staircase now, torches on wallbrackets providing illumination, but little in the way of heat. "Didn't he... wasn't there... in _The Prophet_, last term?"

Harry _really_ didn't want to get into a conversation about Sirius. Or the Ministry of Magic. Or Prophecies. Not right at that moment. Not with Parvati Patil. Not when they were about to spend what was bound to be a thoroughly unpleasant hour or so under Snape's beady glare - the same Snape who could have changed _everything_, from finding Mr Crouch before the Third Task to preventing that ill-fated 'rescue mission' at the end of the previous year. He _really_ didn't need all that swimming around in his head as well.

Parvati grabbed hold of his forearm, making him stop and meet her eyes: "Are you OK, Harry?"

Harry reminded himself that it wasn't her fault - she didn't know about Sirius, and the events surrounding the fiasco in the Ministry of Magic had been sufficiently garbled in their retelling that the truth remained well hidden. He raised his free hand, and took a breath, preparing to launch into an explanation - as best an explanation as he could manage in the minute or so that they had before they reached Snape's lair.

And he almost told her, he really did. And the thing that stopped him wasn't that he didn't want to tell her, more that there wasn't time: if not to actually relate the words so much as to absorb the content. He closed his eyes, willed himself to be calm, and then, with a nod of his head, indicated they should continue on their way: "Let's just get this over with...."

* * *

The door was ajar, but Harry rapped his knuckles twice to announce their presence at 8:59 and 45 seconds, so that Snape wouldn't have the opportunity to heap further misery upon them on the pretext of punishing lateness. It was almost pitch black in the room - there were four candles hovering over a single desk, upon which stood four metal buckets, and light seeped out from Snape's office, briefly, before a black-robed figure with dank, greasy hair filled the doorframe, beady eyes reflecting glints of light from the four candles that were, temporarily, almost the sole source of light in the dungeon.

"Potter. Patil," acknowledged Snape, remaining motionless.

"We're here for our detention," explained Harry, resenting having to offer such a superfluous statement, since he was very much of the belief that the fewer words he exchanged with the Potions Master, the better.

"Believe me, Potter, I am well aware of the reason for your presence here."

This, in Harry's considered opinion, was no great trick, since it was Snape who'd set the detention in the first place. Nonetheless, he wasn't _quite_ so stupid as to observe this fact outloud, and settled for waiting instead for the Head of Slytherin to explain what it was the two of them were to do.

As it turned out, 'explain' would be stretching definitions a bit: "One bucket each. You may leave when you have finished. No magic. _Not. One. Sound._"

With sinking heart, Harry turned to look at the only illuminated table in the room, the four buckets suddenly taking on an altogether sinister air.

"Do I make myself clear?" enquired Snape, acidly.

"Yes, Professor," chorused Harry and Parvati dully, but in not quite sullen enough a fashion to warrant reproach.

"Then get on with it. I have _work_ to do." So saying, Snape spun around and headed back into the confines of his lair, his robes swirling about him like some demented bat.

Harry and Parvati shared a resigned glance in the half-light. Looking on the bright side, at least it didn't look as though Snape was going to be breathing down their necks for the duration. That _had_ to be a good thing, right?

What little silver-lining Harry had eked out of the situation melted away as soon as they saw the contents of two of the buckets. Toads. Horned Toads. Dead Horned Toads. _Lots_ of them.

Parvati, who, as she had mentioned already that evening, had no prior experience of detention at Hogwarts, let alone Snape's particularly vindictive variation on the theme, gave Harry a bewildered sort of look.

"Disembowelling," he whispered, anxious to ensure that they weren't overheard.

Parvati's face said it all aplenty: this really wasn't her kind of thing.

Trying to take command of the situation by affecting a state of detachment, Harry rolled up his sleeves and denoted the two empty buckets in turn: "Bodies, entrails."

Then he plunged his hands into the cold, wet, slimy gloop of deceased amphibians, and started work.

Parvati, almost shaking with revulsion, extended her hands into her bucket, eyes screwed shut. At length she withdrew one of the toads, and hesitantly tore it open. Tears rolled down her cheek.

_This_, though Harry, savagely, was low even by Snape's standards - the four candles gave only the minimum of light for them to see by, the buckets' contents were grisly, cold and slimy to the touch, and there were plenty of charms that would do this job in seconds. For sure, Snape could try and snipe at him all he wanted, but it wasn't fair to inflict this on Parvati too.

After ten immensely long, silent minutes, during which time he'd found his rhythm, a disconnected process of thumbs and fingers that seemed only distantly connected to his hands, Harry noted that Parvati had ground to a complete halt, staring at the dead toad she held in her hands, as if she didn't know what to do with it at all. Feeling fresh loathing for Snivellus and his childish games, Harry took both of Parvati's hands in his, and pulled them gently apart so that the toad dropped wetly back into its bucket.

Then he picked the whole thing up and poured the contents on top of his own: Snape had said they could leave when they'd finished their bucket. Parvati's bucket empty, she was free to leave, and he flicked both hands at her to shoo from the dungeon. It was testament to how upset she was that Parvati didn't stop to protest, but scurried out of the classroom without a word.

Harry didn't care. He plunged his hands deep into the pile of slime, and selected a dead Horned Toad: "Hello _Snape_," he hissed, mentally, at it, before savagely ripping it to shreds, binning its parts in their appropriate buckets.

He called the next toad 'Snape' too. And the one after that. And the one after that. And the one after that, too.

In point of fact, they were _all_ called Snape.

Some time later, the man himself emerged from his lair, black gown flailing around him, to consider Harry's work. He peered at Parvati's empty bucket, used his wand to inspect the collected entrails, and then, with a single, wordless glance at Harry, left to return to his office, all the time unaware that Harry had been rending the Slytherin's namesake limb from limb before his very eyes.

* * *

It was nearly half eleven by the time Harry made it back into Gryffindor, sleeves still rolled up as he didn't want to infect his clothes with the slime of his bested foe. As promised, Ron and Hermione were still up, waiting for him.

"What was it like?" asked Hermione, anxiously. "Parvati was in _such_ a state..."

"Git," stated Ron, flatly, there being no need to expand upon who he was talking about.

"Shower," was all the response he could manage: he was just too wound up to explain. So much for getting back to his Transfiguration essay; he'd have to finish that off in the morning.

He'd evidently kept them up longer than they'd planned - Ron had wished them both goodnight and was already heading towards the stairs. Hermione was giving Harry a considered sort of look.

"What?" he asked, tired.

"Parvati waited up for you, but... well, she was still upset," explained Hermione. "She said to say 'thankyou'."


End file.
